


the place beyond the lines

by bearfeathers



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-04 22:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13374006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: Because some things just don't fit with the lines you've written. A place where all my unsorted bits and pieces gather. Mostly Tumblr prompts.





	1. can't do anything 'cept be in love with you (Percilot)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lywinis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/gifts).



**[LONDON, ENGLAND: JULY 2005]**

 

James Spencer is late. 

 

_"Usually I'm criticizing Harry for being late. Arthur isn't pleased, you know."_

 

"I know, I know," James sighs at Martin's warning. "But am I the only one who finds it strange that we all recognize Harry's tardiness and yet _no one_ ever reprimands him for it?"

 

_"If I were in charge of disciplinary actions, that wouldn't be the case. But as I'm not, the issue isn't something I can fairly comment on."_

 

If Martin were in charge of discipline, James is fairly sure there would be a revolt. And not a fun one with musical numbers like a production of Les Misérables either.

 

"That aside, the point is I don't see why you didn't wake me."

 

_"I'm not your mother, James,"_ comes Martin's reply over the comm line in his spectacles.

 

"We slept in the same bed last night, for God's sake. It's not being my mother, it's being a _good boyfriend_."

 

_"Not so loud! You may not be at work, but I am,"_ Martin answers him in a harsh whisper.

 

"And so would I if you had just woken me!" James whisper-yells back.

 

_"James, you were the one who said my alarm disturbed your sleep. Being that I wake an hour and a half earlier than you, I asked Merlin if he could manage to make a silent alarm, which he did. It's hardly my fault that you never told me your alarm clock was broken and you were relying on my alarm to wake you."_

 

"...alright, you've a point there. I'm sorry, Darling, you know how much I hate being late," James sighs, staring at the congested roadway stretching before him.

 

_"Never late unless it's fashionably so,_ Tortorino _,"_ Martin answers him, the quiet amusement in his voice plain to hear.

 

James feels his heart do a pleasant little jump-skip in his chest. The pet name is fairly new and sparingly used on Martin's part. James had called Martin 'Darling' for so long it had become a pet name of its own, but Martin never seemed to find any use for pet names or similar terms of endearment. Until a few weeks prior, that is.

 

It's no secret that nothing winds James up faster than Martin purring Italian in his ear. But it had been a surprise to hear the word softly spoken against his skin as the two of them basked in a post-coital glow. A glow which hadn't lasted terribly long since James had heard that word and decided if Martin wasn't inside him again in the next ten minutes, he would die.

 

The progression of their relationship was what most people would consider abominably slow. But James has no complaints. They've moved at a pace that made Martin comfortable and that's what James cares about most. They'd begun with Martin very nearly being touch-phobic and now they could share a bed without him leaving in the middle of the night or lying awake until the sun rose, eaten up by anxiety. James has heard countless apologies from his partner for things he can't help but hasn't expected or needed so much as one of them.

 

Being with Martin isn't like his other relationships. But that's rather the point.

 

"If you keep calling me that, I expect you to take responsibility for whatever comes of it," James warns him playfully.

 

_"And here I thought last night would have been enough for you."_

 

"Darling, please, how long have we known ea—"

 

* * *

 

There's an explosion.

 

Then screaming.

 

Then static.

 

It all happens in an instant. Martin freezes midstep in the hall, not understanding what he's just heard. His eyes dart from one spot before him to the next as though he may find the answer before him in the length of the corridor. He reaches up, pressing his fingers to the side of his spectacles.

 

"James?" he calls.

 

His only answer is static.

 

"James," Martin says, firmer this time.

 

Static. Just static. Only static. Suddenly he's moving once again, his pace nearly at a sprint as he hurried towards Merlin's labs. At the same time he switches channels, looking for the wizard himself.

 

"Merlin?"

 

_"Percival? You sound—"_

 

"I was speaking with James on our private channel. But something happened. I don't know what, there was an explosion and screaming... I can't reach him. It's all just static," Martin says, feeling anxiety creeping up his spine and doing his best to quash it.

 

"Let me see if I can reach him on any of the others. Just a moment."

 

By the time Martin reaches Merlin's labs, he feels out of breath. It's strange considering he completes a half hour run each morning before work. But as he quickly makes his way through the doors, he finds that there may be a reason for that.

 

"I couldn't reach him on any channel," Merlin says, his fingers a blur on his keyboard. "But I've been getting word about an explosion on a double decker. It could possibly have been what you heard."

 

"Is there any other way to locate him?" Martin asks, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. 

 

"I'm commandeering some government CCTVs in the area to have a look," Merlin tells him. "But so far it's difficult to make anything out."

 

Martin walks up behind Merlin's chair, eyes scanning the many screens active before him. Merlin was right when he said it was difficult to make sense of it; it's chaos. Smoke obscures the scene and debris line the roadways. The rush of emergency responders only serve to add to the confusion, but all Martin is looking for is James's car.

 

"Suicide bomber," Merlin blurts suddenly. "That's what people on scene are claiming. I don't know how accurate it is, being as it's only just happened but it—"

 

Merlin's voice slowly fades out. Martin's gaze grows fuzzy. He doesn't feel like he's in his own body, rather just wearing a skin suit that looks like him.

 

Not again.

 

It's all he can think. It's too much like New York, when they'd all thought James and Tristan had been inside the World Trade Center as it was attacked and subsequently collapsed. But it can't be. It can't be like this. Not now. Not when James had survived that. Not when Martin hasn't even told him that he—

 

He nearly jumps a foot in the air when his mobile vibrates insistently. He fumbles in his hurry to pull it out of his jacket pocket, not even looking to see who'd called before he answers.

 

"James?" he calls, feeling his heart hammering in his chest.

 

_"I'm here! I'm alright!"_

 

Martin exhales loudly. James shouts to be heard over the background noise, but so long as he's talking, there could be a marching band behind him for all Martin cares. He's alright. James is alright. 

 

"You're not hurt?" Martin asks, needing to be sure.

 

_"Nothing worse than a few scrapes, Darling, I promise,"_ James answers him.

 

"Are you somewhere safe?" Martin asks.

 

_"Near as I can tell. I've moved away from the chaos, in any case."_

 

"Good. Good. Stay put there, I'm coming to get you," Martin declares.

 

Before he has time to hear James's reply, Merlin snatches the phone from Martin's hand, shaking his head. He presses the phone to his ear, ignoring the younger man's protests.

 

"Galahad will be coming to fetch you, Lancelot," Merlin says. "Yes. No, no, everything's fine. Alright. Bye."

 

"Merlin," Martin says, watching him flip the phone shut. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but I'm going to get him. Call Galahad off."

 

"What I am doing is what the situation calls for," Merlin replies firmly. "We don't know what we're dealing with and you're in no fit state to drive, let alone walk into that mess."

 

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Martin asks tersely, his temper prodded to life by the assessment.

 

Rather than reply, Merlin reaches out and takes hold of his wrist, pulling his hand up. At first Martin doesn't know what Merlin's trying to get at, until he actually looks at his hand. It's shaking. Both of them are. He yanks it back from Merlin's grip and clutches it close to his chest as though he's just had some dirty secret exposed.

 

"I'm going," Martin says simply.

 

"The only place you're _going_ is that chair over there," Merlin barks, his voice ringing with authority. "You're too close to this and you've been shaken up—I know you have, don't you dare stand there and lie to me! You can sit here and watch and listen to everything that's going on with me. But Galahad will be going to retrieve Lancelot and I won't hear _one more word_ from you stating otherwise. Now, _sit_."

 

Technically, Merlin doesn't have the authority to ground him. He can only do so if Arthur or Morgana approve his call. Martin could simply walk out the door anyway. But as much as he hates to admit it, he knows the man is right. His head isn't in the right place for this and he can't put James's safety in jeopardy just for the satisfaction of doing things his way. 

 

Jaw clenched, he marches past Merlin and approaches the console where the wizard had been sitting. But rather than take the seat Merlin had pointed him to, he pulls one from a neighboring station and places it on the opposite side before sitting in it; his minor act of rebellion. 

 

Merlin rolls his eyes heavenward, shaking his head. It's better than if he'd left, he supposes.

 

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, James is very much alright, just as he'd said. But not entirely uninjured. There's a painful looking gash by his hairline accompanied by small cuts along his cheek from where the explosion had blown out the windows to his car and pelted him with glass. A minor concussion. Two broken fingers. But on the whole, very much alive and well. All the same, Mags opts to keep him for observation; she never was one to trust a concussion. Martin is practically chomping at the bit by the time she allows him in the room.

 

James is sitting up in bed, hands folded in his lap, looking as though he's simply been waiting for Martin to walk in. He perks up the moment the door closes behind him.

 

"Sorry for the scare, Darling," he says, almost bashfully. "Terrible day to be late for work, as it turns out."

 

Martin leans back against the closed door, nodding his head silently. It takes him several moments to finally get his mouth working.

 

"But you're alright?" he prods.

 

"I'm alright," James says with a grin.

 

Martin pushes off the door and walks over to the bed, taking James's hand when the brunette reaches for him. Sitting on the side of the bed, Martin holds James's hand in his, thumb brushing absently along his knuckles.

 

"You're sure you're alright?" Martin asks.

 

"I told you, I'm—"

 

"But are you _truly_ alright?"

 

James pauses at that, his mouth abruptly shutting. He stares down into his lap and squeezes Martin's hand gently. James is always the one you go to when you need your spirits lifted. Perhaps because of that, he's made himself out to be the eternal optimist; always ready with a smile and a joke. Martin knows, though, that he doesn't always feel as positive as he appears.

 

"If I'm being honest, it was perhaps a bit too familiar for my liking," James admits with a soft huff of laughter. "But I _am_ alright, Martin. Really."

 

Martin's eyes search his face, as though looking for something he's hiding, some grain of suffering that he's hoping to keep to himself. But as far as Martin can tell, James is being honest. Regardless, it has been... uncomfortably familiar. Though it had been the impetus to the beginning of their relationship, Martin still regards 9/11 to be the most terrifying day of his life. Any reminder of it would be awful but this, in particular, had rattled him. Apparently more than James.

 

Typically, that fact might embarrass him. Instead he finds himself not caring especially about anything other than the fact that James is alive. He reaches out, fingers just barely touching the neat row of stitches at his hairline. James will be alright. His hand slides around to the back of James's head as he leans in.

 

Martin presses his lips to his partner's in a manner so reverent as to nearly be chaste. His eyes are shut tight as he breaks the kiss to press his forehead to James's. He can still feel the other man's breath tickling his lips.

 

"I love you."

 

It's quiet. Something barely there, meant for one person and one person alone. Perhaps it's even quiet enough that it fails to reach even God's ears. It's not a word Martin uses and certainly not a phrase he uses. Before James, he'd never had it spoken to him. 

 

But he does. He knows he does. He should have said it before now, but... saying it isn't easy. It should be something absurdly simple to do and yet whenever he's thought to say it, he can never get the words to move from his brain to his mouth. Even now, he's only just begun to understand what love truly is. But whatever it is, however long it's taken him to say it, he knows it's what he feels for James.

 

"Martin... You've... That's the first time you've said it. You actually said it."

 

He hears James, but he can't get his eyes to open. Almost as though they're glued shut. But he knows why; he's afraid of being overwhelmed by what he might see in James's face.

 

"Do you really?" James asks, unheeded.

 

Martin nods, trying to swallow despite the dryness of is mouth. "I just... It's just that I..."

 

James spares him from further explanation. His lips come crashing into Martin's, one of his hands at the back of Martin's head and the other sliding along his ribcage to his back, drawing Martin closer to him. James kisses him insistently, his tongue tracing the seam of his partner's lips before they open up to him and grant him entry.

 

This is how Martin can open himself up to James best. In things not said. In the way he gives himself to his partner entirely, every piece of him. In action, rather than words. In the way he nips at James's lower lip, inciting a growl from him that tells Martin they've gone far enough. He pulls back, albeit reluctantly, and opens his eyes, his gaze centered on James's hands.

 

When those hands begin to move, Martin watches curiously as one moves towards him. James grips him gently beneath the chin, tipping his head back until they're looking one another in the eye. Martin knows it's just the situation overriding his senses, but he swears James's eyes have never looked so blue. 

 

"I love you, too."


	2. sweater weather (Merlahad, Harry Potter!AU)

Students are not to be out of bed after curfew.

 

Students aren't to imbibe smuggled fire whiskey either, but it's hardly stopping the two of them.

 

Sitting on the floor on the roof of the Astronomy Tower, backs pressed to the stone ramparts, Harry and Merlin sit side by side gazing up at the stars. The bottle passes back and forth between them, the burn of the alcohol giving Merlin a pleasantly warm feeling despite the chill.

 

"You have a vicious streak when you're using that invisibility spell, you know," Harry says with some amusement. "I thought Filch was about to soil himself."

 

His head is tipped back against the stone wall, his hair loosed from its usually neat hold and falling in soft auburn waves. A healthy blush has risen to his cheeks and his warm brown eyes gaze back at Merlin lazily. It's a good look on him, in Merlin's opinion.

 

"It's not as though he didn't have it coming," Merlin snorts. He presses the bottle to his lips, tips it back and drinks deeply. He's just this side of drunk where he's warm and fuzzy and giggly and he decides it's a good place to be. "He tripped James with his mop last week, remember?"

 

Harry snorts as he laughs, accepting the bottle back. "It was rather funny, though. You have to admit that."

 

"Aye it was that," Merlin agrees. "But he still had to be avenged."

 

"That he did," Harry says, setting the bottle down.

 

Merlin watches him rise unsteadily to his feet before he holds a hand out to the seventh year Ravenclaw. He takes it, letting Harry pull him up. They stumble around briefly, clinging to each other and giggling like children as they try to regain their balance. When at last they do, the two of them prop themselves up by their elbows as they lean on the ramparts and look out upon the school grounds. Harry shifts, resting his head on Merlin's shoulder with a contented sigh.

 

How long it took them to reach this point... And they've still got so many years ahead of them. He turns his head just enough to rest his cheek atop Harry's head. Merlin inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of Harry's shampoo. It's warm and familiar, something spicy but clean that makes him feel immediately at home.

 

"Shame we'll be graduating this year," Merlin remarks.

 

"Mmmmmm," Harry hums in agreement. "I think we'll all miss it. But think of all the things waiting for us."

 

The things waiting for them. It doesn't have the reassuring ring that Harry likely meant for it to have. Merlin wouldn't have anywhere to go home to and no one waiting for him. Now that he's aged out of the system and since he has no family, the thought of leaving Hogwarts fills him with more than just sadness.

 

"You don't agree," Harry mumbles.

 

"No, it's not that, exactly... Just... I don't want this to end," Merlin replies. "I like it here. I like what we have here."

 

"So do I, but..." Harry says, his sentence petering out. "Can I ask you something?"

 

"You know you can."

 

Harry tries to wiggle even closer, but is met with limited success since the two of them are already pressed to each other's sides. 

 

"I was thinking, once we graduate... I want to get a place together," Harry tells him. "Well... I mean once we have jobs. We may need to stay with my parents for a while... maybe the summer... Or a year... Hopefully not a year, but you can never rely on the job market to be steady and—"

 

"Yes," Merlin blurts.

 

"Huh?" Harry slurs. (Though to Merlin it sounds more like a befuddled 'Bwuh?')

 

"Getting a place and... and the rest," Merlin says.

 

"Oh... Really?" Harry asks.

 

"Really," Merlin answers. "I can't think of anything I'd want more."

 

Harry lifts his head, looking into Merlin's eyes as though he wished to etch the moment permanently into his memory. "I can't either."

 

Merlin doesn't let the moment go to waste. He leans in, catching the Gryffindor boy in a kiss. It's perhaps a bit sloppier than usual—they really had drunk a little too much, he thinks—but right then and there it's perfect. The slide of Harry's tongue on his, perfectly pink lips pressed against his own, the occasional drag of teeth... It's perfect. It's always perfect.

 

He doesn't realize straight away that he's a bit more enthusiastic than he'd meant to be. Harry is bowed backwards, his back curved in a lovely arc on the top of the stone ramparts. Even then, the realization only excites him further. Harry's hands are fisted in his jumper, as though he could somehow drag Merlin close enough to meld the two of them together. Merlin's hands had rested on his partner's slim waist but now come alive and travel upward, rucking up Harry's pajama top and gliding across bare skin.

 

Harry practically purrs at the attention, nibbling at the Ravenclaw's lower lip and hooking a leg around his waist. And that's the moment Merlin seems to come to his senses. Alcohol really does alter one's perception; here he'd been moments away from pressing Harry into the stone barriers and taking him right then and there. They needed to slow down, calm down.

 

"I think," Merlin says, pulling back and catching his breath, "perhaps we ought to go back."

 

"But _Merlin_..." Harry whines.

 

Admittedly, Merlin does feel a tad bit guilty. He'd wound his boyfriend up something proper.

 

"I know, but we can't here," Merlin says. "And we've been up here a rather long time anyway."

 

"I'll die," Harry says very seriously.

 

"You will not die," Merlin laughs.

 

"I will. I will absolutely die if you don't follow through with this," Harry declares, sighing dramatically. "You have to take responsibility."

 

Merlin smiles as he pulls Harry upright and away from the barriers. "Tomorrow. I promise. We'll meet in the Room of Requirement after potions."

 

"Tomorrow is so far away..."

 

"Harry, you're drunk."

 

"So are you, if you haven't noticed."

 

"Mm. All the more reason to wait until tomorrow."

 

Harry grumbles all the way back down the stairs. Parting to go to their separate dormitories is always difficult, but as Merlin settles back into bed, it's with the reminder that it won't be forever. After school, Harry wants them to live together. The two of them. And one bed. _Their_ bed. 

 

Graduation suddenly doesn't seem so bad.


	3. happy returns (Percilot)

Catching Martin awake has been rather tricky since he'd first emerged from his coma. Getting him awake and clear headed is nearly impossible. All this means is that managing to find a moment to tell him about everything that's happened while he's been out has been... difficult. There are a great many things he needs to be filled in on, but at the top of James's list is Harry.

 

As far as Martin knows, Harry's dead. Harry's been dead since V Day, after all. He'd have no reason to believe that had changed. 

 

Except it had. When James had tried to broach the subject, he'd met with no success what-so-ever. Either Martin wasn't lucid enough to understand what was being said to him or he simply didn't believe what James was telling him. More than once he'd thought James to be a figment of his imagination, a dream, something conjured by his drug addled mind. Worse was when he accused James of lying to him, seemingly thinking he was just some spectre out to torment him.

 

Martin's never handled pain medication well. Nor alcohol, nor sedatives, nor anything else in that vein. It's why anyone who knows him has rarely seen him touch more than two drinks in the same day; it does things to him which he's simply not comfortable with. Unfortunately, there have been times when pain medication and anesthesia weren't optional and the results were... interesting. At times it could be humorous; Martin had a horrifically foul mouth when he was drugged. Other times, much less so. In that state, Martin had a habit of being much freer with discussing his feelings. It's not always happy.

 

And so James has hardly been surprised with his results. Half the time Martin doesn't even recall their conversations when next he wakes. But James is patient. He can wait. Martin had woken and things can only improve.

 

A knock at the door rouses James from the light doze he'd slipped into. He calls for the knocker to enter, clearing his throat when he hears the hoarseness of his own voice. The door creaks open and Harry leans in, the majority of his body still in the hall and his hand on the door latch.

 

"Bad time?" he asks.

 

"No. No, not a bad time at all," James says, sitting up in his seat.

 

Harry has taken to coming round at least once every day, if only to check in. James knows Harry's been anxious to see Martin awake himself for his own reasons. One of those reasons in particular is something James has a bit of a problem with. He's known Harry long enough to be able to read guilt in him when he sees it and he knows Harry feels responsible for what had happened up on the bridge. That vile woman may have called his name, but it doesn't make him responsible. Martin never would have let Harry near her even if he'd been there; not after everything he'd been through. And so the point is rather moot.

 

Just not to Harry. James has tried to convince him otherwise, but nothing he's said seems to have sunk in. Harry won't be satisfied until he speaks to Martin himself. Perhaps not even then. Harry always did have quite the martyr complex, after all.

 

"How are you feeling today, James?" Harry asks, standing as he always does at the foot of Martin's bed with his hands in his pockets.

 

"Fine," James replies. He sighs at Harry's pointed stare. "Really. I am. It's all a bit easier to handle having him awake."

 

Harry nods, appearing satisfied with the answer as he stares down at his shoes. "Good. And therapy?"

 

James rubs the back of his neck, trying to banish the creeping feeling of shame crawling up his spine. "Helping."

 

Harry looks as though he'd like to say more, but holds himself back. They've had this conversation already. Harry had assured him he had nothing to be ashamed of over and over, had told him that seeking help was a sign of strength and not weakness... James didn't want to hear it. It made him restless and agitated when they treated him so gently. Harry had learned not to press the issue.

 

Instead he nods towards Martin. "Has he said anything?"

 

"Well, the last two things he said to me were: 'James, I had a nightmare. I was married to a woman. It was the worst thing I could imagine.' and 'Why the fuck don't my fucking arms work? James, someone's turned off my arms.' so all that really tells me is that the drugs are working and his worst nightmare is being heterosexual," James relays to him, trying not to smile. "Frankly I never knew he had such a strong opinion on the matter."

 

He watches Harry press his fist to his mouth and cough in an attempt to disguise his laugh. He's not fooling anyone. "Well, that's... good the medication is working, I suppose."

 

"It is," James agrees with a lopsided smile. "Though I know he'll kick up a fuss once he gets a moment of clear headedness."

 

Harry meets his smile with a faint one of his own. "Yes, well, I suppose he'll have to forgive us if we prefer it over the alternative."

 

James nods, breaking eye contact with Harry to look down at his partner, brushing back strands of dark hair from his forehead. "He certainly will."

 

The motion unexpectedly seems to rouse Martin, as he snuffles quietly in his sleep and James feels his hand being gently squeezed. Harry remains quiet, waiting it seems, to see if he might finally get a moment with Martin when his eyes are open. 

 

Martin frowns in his sleep and James hears a hoarse, "Loud..."

 

Squeezing his partner's hand, James's smile grows at least three times in size. "I'm sorry we were being too loud. Are you alright?"

 

"Mm. Who...?"

 

James frowns. "Who?"

 

Cracking his eyes open, Martin squints in the light of the room. James feels like it's a sight he'll never tire of. Something as simple as seeing him open his eyes has become the highlight of James's day. Even if he was only able to fix his bleary gaze on James for a handful of minutes, seeing those dark eyes again was enough.

 

Martin softly clears his throat, though it does little to help his voice. The months spent intubated with a breathing tube were proving hard on his throat and Morgana had advised James it would likely take some time for him to recover his voice fully.

 

"Who're you talking to?" Martin rasps, blinking slowly.

 

James looks up towards the end of the bed where Harry is standing. "Ah, well... Actually, that's something I've been hoping to talk to you about. A lot's happened while you've been out."

 

"It has?" Martin mumbles.

 

"Yes," James says, squeezing his hand. "Now, I know this may be difficult to understand, but I'd like you to bear with me, alright? Can you do that for me, Martin?"

 

"Mm," Martin hums, eyes fluttering shut for a few brief moments before he manages to pry them open again.

 

"Alright, well... I've actually been talking to Harry," James says, watching Martin carefully for a response.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry watches from the foot of the bed, careful to keep his distance for the time being. He's still out of Martin's sight at this angle and doesn't intend to budge an inch until he's certain James has Martin on the same page.

 

"No," Martin says.

 

"I know, it sounds ludicrous, but..."

 

"No," Martin repeats with a slight shake of his head. "Harry's dead... he's not coming back. We saw it, James."

 

"I know, we _did_ see it. But thing is he didn't die from that gunshot. He was picked up by—"

 

"No, stop," Martin says, closing his eyes. "Why're you doing this? Why...?"

 

"It's alright, Martin," James says soothingly, running his fingers through his partner's hair. "I know it's difficult to take in. But he's right here, look."

 

Harry takes that as his cue, coming around the bed to stand beside James. Martin's eyes remain shut, as though trying to block out what James is telling him. And suddenly Harry feels like a stranger among his own friends as he stands there wondering what to say. The truth is he has a great many things he'd like to say, things he's thought about over the course of some weeks, but standing here now he finds himself scrambling for words.

 

"Hello, Martin," Harry says, deciding on the first thing that manages to make it from his brain to his mouth. "It's good to see you."

 

The seconds tick by in silence; long enough for Harry to wonder if he'd drifted off again. Only Martin's eyes open slowly, wide and dark and disbelieving as his gaze finds Harry. But the recognition he'd been hoping to see never comes. Martin stares for a moment before Harry sees tears beginning to form and his face just... crumples. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, his face pinched with grief.

 

"No, no, no... It's not real, it's just a dream," Martin says, seemingly to himself. "Why does this keep happening?"

 

"It's not a dream," James assures him, squeezing his hand tight. "A sister agency of ours found Harry and saved his life. He'd had amnesia since then, but Eggsy and Merlin—"

 

"Stop lying... Stop, I don't want to do this again," Martin says, turning his face away from them. He murmurs quietly to himself, "It's not real. Harry's gone. I'm just... It's just another dream."

 

Just another dream. Harry wonders just what sorts of dreams he's been having that would have him accuse James of lying to him. But then, if he believes this is a dream, then James isn't any more real to him than Harry.

 

"Martin," Harry tries again, "I know it doesn't make a great deal of sense right now. You were injured very badly at the Tower Bridge and Mags has you heavily medicated for that reason. If I were just part of a dream, would I know that?"

 

"Wasn't a bridge," Martin argues. "You wouldn't believe me. And I couldn't make you bring James back from Argentina... and I couldn't stop you from going to the church... and Merlin's alone. I thought I had to wake up... it was all wrong there..."

 

"He doesn't remember the bridge," James sighs quietly, leaning towards Harry. "He keeps talking about a car hitting him, but he keeps saying that's a dream, so I'm not sure _what_ he thinks."

 

Harry nods silently, once again wondering how best to proceed. It doesn't seem that there's any way for him to convince Martin that this is reality and not just a dream. Perhaps he was just too eager and it's just too soon. He'd only woken a few days prior. If they give him time and try again, they're more likely to see better results. 

 

They may just have to wait until Morgana deems it appropriate to dial back his medication. If Harry could wait until he were off it completely, he would, but that won't be happening in the near future. Martin's injuries are too severe, even with the aid of the nanites. The months of recovery ahead of him will be... painful. Just as they are for Merlin. Not for the first time, Harry wishes there were something he could do which might relieve them of that pain, but this is an arena in which he is entirely powerless.

 

"I understand," Harry tells him. "You don't have to believe me. I'll come back another time and we'll try again."

 

"Don't," Martin says, making a soft, unhappy noise. "You keep coming back... hurts too much..."

 

He's dreamed of Harry before. And it had hurt him to do so. Harry feels distinctly uncomfortable with the admission. If he were completely in his right mind, you would have to employ nearly every interrogation technique in the book to pry that sort of information from Martin. While it's true many of them would have liked to see him be a bit freer with his emotions, they never meant like this.

 

This isn't right. 

 

Harry has the distinct impression he's doing more harm than good here. If his presence is only going to upset Martin, then it seems it would be best if he were to leave. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he looks to James.

 

 

* * *

 

 

James looks up at Harry, his brow creased and drawn up at the middle in a picture of worry. He hadn't expected Martin to handle it quite this badly. But perhaps they'd jumped too soon. James had been completely sober when he'd first learned Harry was alive and he'd _still_ questioned it. In Martin's state... well, he supposes it's not that surprising.

 

Listening to Martin's distraught murmuring, Harry's posture goes stiff, his shoulders set in a rigid line. Though his expression remains relaxed and seemingly unbothered, James knows this bothers him. Hell, it bothers _James_ to see Martin so uncharacteristically emotional.

 

"We'll just... try again some other time," James tells Harry.

 

Harry nods once. "I think perhaps it would be best if I left now."

 

James sighs slowly. "Unfortunately, I think so. It's alright, I'll get him calmed down."

 

James watches Harry hesitate briefly, as though not truly wishing to leave. But the moment passes and he offers James another stiff nod before he makes his exit, carrying a weight on his shoulders he hadn't entered with. James wishes this could have been a happy moment for him. It should have been. But smooth sailing never was a frequent visitor in their track record.

 

"Martin," James says quietly, turning his attention back to his partner and trying to settle him down. "Please look at me. I promise it's alright."

 

"I don't want to see him..." Martin says hoarsely. "I just keep... I don't want to keep seeing him when he's not coming back."

 

He turns his face back towards James, only to lie still and quiet, taking shaky breaths as James reaches out to wipe the tears from his eyes. The former Lancelot gently brushes his thumb along the curve of his partner's cheek, wiping away the wet trail even as tears continue to flow. He blinks up at James, dark eyes glazed beneath the heavy veil of medication.

 

"James?"

 

"Mm-hm?" James hums. "What is it?"

 

Martin looks up at him, his eyes sliding to the space just behind his left shoulder, where Harry had been standing. He stares at that space, struggling now to keep his eyes open—James knows he won't be awake much longer. A sudden, fresh wave of tears comes and Martin squeezes his eyes shut as though each one were somehow causing him pain.

 

"I miss Harry."

 

James swallows thickly at the quiet statement so weighed down with sorrow that it makes his chest cramp. It's not that he hadn't known this before; they all had missed Harry, even if some of them were less expressive than others. But seeing Martin so tied up in knots thinking Harry's still dead, when just the sight of the man brings him to tears because he knows Harry won't be there when he wakes from what he thinks is a dream, it all makes James worry about how much Martin keeps to himself. He leans forward in his seat, rising enough so that he can press his lips to Martin's forehead in a soft kiss.

 

"I know you do, Darling," James answers him.

 

He listens to Martin breathing quietly for a time, stroking his cheek and hoping to settle him, gradually watching his expression smooth out as he drifts closer and closer to sleep. He feels guilty for having upset him so greatly by having Harry greet him... but he'd just wanted to have them all together again. He should've been patient. Now Martin and Harry are _both_ upset. Not that Harry will admit to it. 

 

"James... Are you real now?"

 

The groggy inquiry comes with the twitch of Martin's fingers against James's hand.

 

"I'm real now. I'm right here," James assures him, dipping his head down to rest his forehead against Martin's.

 

"...'m sorry," Martin mumbles.

 

"Don't be sorry," James says, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "You've nothing to be sorry for. Just get your rest."

 

"Will you still be here when I wake up?" he asks.

 

"Of course. I'm right here," James assures him. "I'm not going anywhere."

 

That seems to reassure him enough to quietly return to sleep, breathing softly as he still holds onto James's hand. James presses one more kiss to his forehead before settling back in his seat. They'll get there eventually. They just have to take one day at a time.

 

 

* * *

 

**[SEVERAL MONTHS LATER...]**

 

 

"I do _not_ cry," Martin declares indignantly. "I had my tear ducts cauterized when I was twelve."

 

Eggsy watches him cautiously until Merlin rolls his eyes and claps the boy on the back, "You have to stop believing everything he says just because he says it with a straight face."

 

"He says bloody everything with a straight face," Eggsy protests. "It's impossible to tell when he's lying."

 

"Who says I'm not telling the truth?" Martin grumps.

 

"Everyone here who saw you blubbering over anything from Harry being alive to a YouTube video of puppies," James says with a smug smile.

 

Martin shoots him a dirty look. "Oh, _fine_ , I see how it is. Take advantage of me when I'm drugged up to my eyeballs."

 

Harry leans in, wrapping an arm around the younger man's shoulders with a smile on his face. "Come now, no need to be so sour. We all thought it was very sweet."

 

Martin grumbles to himself, his cheeks a healthy pink, but makes no attempt to push Harry away. Apparently even now the novelty of having Harry back with them hasn't quite worn off. Not even when their new Arthur joins in on teasing him.

 

"Now, blow out your candles," Harry tells him.

 

"No," Martin says stubbornly.

 

"Martin, if you don't blow them out, we'll start singing again," Merlin deadpans.

 

The words have barely left Merlin's mouth before all the candles have been extinguished. Never let it be said that Merlin didn't know how to motivate all of them; the man could herd cats if he wished. As Eggsy eagerly hovers over Roxy while she cuts the cake, James leans over to his partner with a smile still firmly in place.

 

"So, did you make a wish?" he asks.

 

Martin sighs and closes his eyes, settling back in his seat. "No. Everything I need is already here."

 

James's smile softens at the answer, as offhanded as Martin had meant for it to be. It had been nothing short of a miracle that Martin had lived to see his next birthday and it's not something James will be forgetting any time soon. Incensed though he may be for their teasing, James knows he's happy here with all of them whether he shows it or not.

 

"Oh really?" James asks.

 

"If you think there's something I've missed, feel free to point it out," Martin says. "But as far as I can see, everything is right where it ought to be."

 

"There, you see? You do have a heart after all," Merlin says with a grin.

 

"If I do, it's only because you've added it to my programming," Martin replies, lips quirked up at the edges in amusement.

 

Merlin barks a laugh and Martin does his best to duck out of the way when the wizard reaches for him. Unfortunately there's only so far you can go while sitting in a chair and Merlin has quite the reach. Though his face is scrunched up in annoyance as Merlin pinches his cheek, James can see the smile brewing underneath. Dipping down, he presses a kiss to his partner's nose.

 

"Happy Birthday, Darling."

 

Thankfully, everyone seems to be preoccupied by cake at that point, so when Martin hauls him in to kiss him proper, no one seems to notice. And if they do, they're smart enough not to say anything.


	4. you know i'm such a fool for you (Merlahad Cop!AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) contains mentions of an attempted date rape by a minor character

Harry hears the sound of knocking on his office door and idly calls for whoever it is to enter. Had he known it would be Merlin, his response would have been decidedly more attentive. Seeing their forensic tech stepping into his office, clipboard in hand, Harry nearly tips his chair over as he shoots to his feet.

 

"Merlin," he blurts. "I didn't think you were working today."

 

"Ah, well," Merlin says, closing the door behind him and looking a tad sheepish, "I wasn't injured. Just had something of a hangover from those pills. And I tend to go stir crazy without anything to do, so I... well, I just wanted to come back to work. Just wanted the normalcy, you know?"

 

"Right. Yes. Good," Harry says, nodding to himself. "Glad to have you back."

 

Before Harry can make any further inquiries as to his health, Merlin pulls a folder from his arms and shoves it beneath Harry's nose. The Detective Inspector takes the folder curiously, opening it to see what he's been given.

 

"That's the complete write-up on the pills Southerly was carrying with him," Merlin says. He clears his throat. "You'll find Martin's tox-screen in there. As well as my own."

 

Harry looks down at the paperwork in his hands, feeling his blood boil and his stomach churn. All this time they'd had a predator working among them and none of them had cottoned on. Not until he'd been greedy enough to strike close to home. Harry's convinced that if they hadn't pulled him off, James would have beaten Southerly's head into the pavement. Given that they came upon him with Martin unconscious and sprawled out in his back seat, Harry could somewhat understand it.

 

But despite Southerly's history of advances toward the crown prosecutor, there was nothing to lead them to believe he was doing anything other than what he claimed. Namely, clearing rubbish from his front seat so he could strap Martin in and drive him home, seeing as he'd clearly had too much to drink. So Harry had taken Martin home, Southerly had his nose reset and James was promptly suspended.

 

That would have been the end of it, had Merlin not approached him with a rather guilty look on his face. Apparently, he'd taken the liberty of drawing some blood samples from Martin that night and tested them himself. What they showed was a very low level of alcohol in his bloodstream and a very high dose of a prescription sleep aid. Harry knew exactly what that meant. But to prove it, they had to come up with a plan.

 

Merlin had opted to use himself as bait, which Thomas had approved. When Southerly took him out to dinner, Merlin got his answer. Feeling the effects of the sleeping aid kicking in, he'd stumbled to the bathroom with Southerly close behind. Harry had called it right then and there, bursting into the restroom with three uniformed officers in tow. Without a minute to spare, it had seemed; Southerly had followed Merlin into a stall and had him propped up against the wall with a condom in his hand.

 

Merlin had gone off to the hospital for observation and Harry had completed his arrest. But standing now in his office, looking over the report in his hands, he feels anger come rolling through him as fresh as though he were just slapping the cuffs on that snake now.

 

"Excellent. This is... good work, Merlin," Harry says with a stiff nod of his head.

 

"Thank you," Merlin says slowly. "But if I'm being honest, it's only half the reason I came to see you."

 

Harry lifts his head curiously, something in the tech's voice catching his attention. "Is something wrong?"

 

"No. No, not _wrong_ , exactly," Merlin says, rubbing his hands together. "This might sound a bit ridiculous. I don't even know why I'm bringing it up..."

 

"Whatever it is, it's not ridiculous," Harry assures him. "Please. Say whatever it is you've come to say."

 

Merlin frowns down at Harry's desk, staring at the ink blotter as though it had personally wronged him. Harry's ears are filled with the sound of his own heart thudding against his rib cage. What is it? What's got him making that face?

 

"It's not as though I expected you to be there or that you had to be when I woke up in the hospital," Merlin says slowly. "But it felt like... you were avoiding me, somehow."

 

"Avoiding you," Harry echoes, never taking his eyes off the other man.

 

"I know, I know, it's childish," Merlin sighs, looking up to meet his gaze. "I just wanted to be sure I hadn't done something to put you off. Have I?"

 

Harry reprimands himself for allowing his gaze to linger on the tech's lips, watching as his tongue poked out at the corner to wet them. He swallows thickly, telling himself to get it together. But how many times has he daydreamed about kissing those lips? How many times has he shamefully spilled over his fist as he fantasized about more? Now is not the time. Not even close. Get it together, Hart.

 

"No, of course not. Not at all," Harry says, clearing his throat. "I wasn't avoiding you that night, I just..."

 

How to phrase this without sounding completely besotted, he wonders? The last thing he needs is for Merlin to feel uncomfortable working here because some silly inspector can't get him out of his mind. And not just here, either. The poor man lives directly below him in their apartment building. In that sense, he supposes he wouldn't come off much better than Southerly.

 

"Well, given what had just happened, I didn't wish to make you... uncomfortable," Harry says. "I thought it would be best if you were taken care of by a third party so it wouldn't look as though I were... well... taking advantage."

 

"Why would it look that way?" Merlin asks, stepping up to the edge of his desk.

 

"I'm not saying it would," Harry says, his eyes quickly flicking up from Merlin's lips to his eyes and back. "Just in the event that someone tried to spin it that way, that's all. Taking all necessary precautions and all that. I just wanted to see to it that you were looked after properly and admittedly my temper likely would have impaired my ability to do so. It was better that I was taking care of Southerly's booking."

 

"Right. I understand now," Merlin says, nodding to himself. "Thank you, Harry. I honestly don't think that case would have come to such a happy conclusion we're it not for you."

 

"What? No! No, you were the one who did it all, Merlin," Harry corrects him. "You were the one who found that sleeping aid in Martin's blood and you were the one who put himself in harm's way to trap Southerly. It was all you. I was just there as your back up, you were... You were brilliant."

 

Merlin's cheeks turn pink under his praise and damn him, but Harry can't help but admire the way it highlights the pink of his lips. Again, Merlin wets his lips nervously and Harry swears that tongue will drive him mad by sight alone.

 

"I meant it more in regards to you rushing into the restroom," Merlin says, looking straight at him. "If it had been anyone else, I think he would've... gotten further. But I trust you and I knew you wouldn't let it get to that. And I was right."

 

Harry's mouth feels dry. "Of course I didn't. I could never live with myself if I did."

 

Not that he hadn't thought about it. Over and over until his head was dizzy with what if's. It terrified him to think what may have happened if he'd been a moment too slow. He'd been against Merlin's involvement from the get-go, even though it turned out to be the key to making their case. He'd said some not-so-kind things to Thomas in the heat of the moment for approving the assignment. A proper apology is still on his list of things to do. It's just that Merlin put himself out so far on a limb that Harry has been afraid it wouldn't hold his weight.

 

"As I said, I knew you wouldn't let it come to that," Merlin says quietly. 

 

They stand there for a moment, staring at each other quietly. Harry struggles to maintain his distance, doing everything he can to quash the images coming to mind. Merlin had nearly been assaulted for Christ's sake and here he is staring at his lips and thinking—

 

Whatever he'd been thinking flies far, far from his mind as Merlin all but dives across his desk. The forensic tech's hand curls around the back of his head at the base of his skull before his lips come crashing into Harry's. For a moment Harry's frozen, unsure if this is really happening or if he's possibly just had a stroke. But as reality sets in, he melts into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut as he opens to Merlin almost desperately.

 

Merlin kisses him hungrily, devouring his mouth, biting his lips and sucking on his tongue, and Harry's practically gagging for it. In some distant part of his mind, Harry's glad he'd made the choice to close the blinds to his office; even if most everyone has gone home for the day, the last thing he'd need was someone playing peeping Tom.

 

"Wait, wait," Harry gasps, pulling back for air. "Come round to this side of the desk."

 

Merlin seems to have no problem with this, given that it removes any obstacles between them. But he still yelps in surprise when Harry pushes him down into his chair before clambering on top of him.

 

"I like the view from here," Merlin tells him.

 

"I thought you might," Harry says with a smile as he straddles the wizard.

 

Harry dives straight back in, humming encouragingly as Merlin places his hands on his rear. Feeling the tech's hands firmly kneading his backside prompts Harry to move with the rhythm he's set. Almost before he realizes it, he's grinding in Merlin's lap, his growing erection beginning to strain at his trousers. They've let this get too far out of hand. They should stop. They really, really should.

 

Harry smothers a whine as Merlin rolls his hips up to meet him.

 

They can't stop.

 

Harry pulls away from Merlin, panting and still desperate for more. But precautions must be taken. "Turn on my radio. I'm going to lock the door. Supplies, bottom drawer under the paper tray."

 

There's a spark of surprise in Merlin's green-hazel eyes as though he hadn't expected Harry to go this far. But it's gone in an instant, replaced by the same hunger Harry feels eating away at him from the inside. They're both quick about their tasks, making sure they won't be interrupted for any reason.

 

Harry's usually the last person who would agree to sex in the office—that's more of a James Spencer sort of thing—but right now, he's sure that he might do some kind of permanent damage to his anatomy if they stop here. He's wanted this for too long. It has to happen right now, as soon as possible.

 

"You're sure about this?" Merlin asks, working at the clasp on Harry's belt.

 

"Yes, god, please," Harry answers him.

 

That seems to be all it takes to convince Merlin. In short work, Harry is bent over his own desk as Merlin's clever fingers work him open. Even this is better than he could have ever imagined and he bites down hard on his lower lip to stifle his cries; at the very least, the cleaning crew is still in the building. He knows Merlin could spend a bit more time prepping him, but Harry's patience seemed to have evaporated in the face of getting something he was sure he never would.

 

"Stop, stop, that's good enough," Harry pants.

 

"Harry..." Merlin murmurs uncertainly.

 

"I need you inside me," Harry says outright. "Right now. I can't wait any longer, Merlin."

 

Merlin leans over him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "Tell me if it gets to be too much."

 

Harry nods quickly, fingers curling around the edge of his desk in anticipation. He could almost sob in relief as he feels the head of Merlin's cock pressed against him, but instead let's out a pitiful whimper as Merlin guides himself inside him.

 

"Alright, Harry?" Merlin asks, pausing to be sure.

 

"Good, good," pants Harry, unconsciously spreading his legs further. "Keep going."

 

Merlin continues pressing further and further inside him and Harry relishes the slow burn as he stretches to accommodate his lover's girth. Taking slightly less prep than usual only serves to make Merlin feel even bigger inside him than he probably is. By the time Merlin's hips come flush with his rear, Harry is panting and shaking with need, beyond caring if anyone were to come knocking at his door. Merlin's grip on his hips is tight enough to bruise as he holds himself back from simply giving in to the primal desire to just start thrusting with wild abandon.

 

Instead he noses aside Harry's shirt collar, pressing kiss after kiss to his neck, giving him time to adjust. Standing there buried inside him, he feels everything; every twitch, every spasm, all so perfect.

 

"So good, Harry," he sighs against his lover's skin. "I love the way you feel. So fucking _tight_ on me."

 

The praise sets Harry twitching, muscles squeezing the thick cock inside him, and he rocks his hips impatiently. He needs Merlin to move and he needs it done yesterday. Thankfully, Merlin doesn't seem to want to dally any further either. He sets up a slow but steady rhythm, drawing out just a bit further each time until he's making slow, deep thrusts from tip to base.

 

Harry's had plenty of sex before, but never quite like this. Every other sexual encounter may as well be placed in an entirely different category than this. By all means it shouldn't be this good. But it's with Merlin. It's not what he's doing but who he's doing it with that stokes that fire pooled low in his belly.

 

Once Merlin's confident that Harry's been given proper time to adjust, it's like the tenuous string holding him back snaps. Harry gasps as the tech molds himself to Harry's back, his hips setting a punishing pace as he takes his new lover hard and fast, holding nothing back. Harry's mouth is left hanging open, his grip on the edge of his desk turned white knuckled as though he may be thrown from it at any moment.

 

It's so good he can't stand it. His back is slick with sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin. It's all he can do to try and roll his hips to match Merlin's tempo when a particularly nice thrust grazes his prostate and his knees feel like they've been converted to gelatin. Merlin moans above him, something low and wrecked, and the sound goes straight to his cock.

 

"Merlin," he pants. "Harder."

 

Merlin pauses for the briefest of moments before obeying Harry's request. He moves slower than he had previously, but each thrust pounds into Harry with enough force to rattle the desk. His motions are steady and consistent, leaving Harry knowing exactly when Merlin will draw out and exactly when he'll slam back into him. It's easier now to meet him on each thrust and Harry takes a particular sort of pride in hearing the tech's soft grunts in time with the slap of skin on skin.

 

"Hard enough for you, Harry?" Merlin grunts, breathing harshly against the back of his neck.

 

"God, fuck yes," Harry hisses. Only for Merlin to stop and ease back into a gentler, but faster rhythm. "Merlin, what are you—"

 

The rest of his question dissolves into a puddle of garbled syllables as a slick hand takes hold of his cock and begins stroking him with purpose. It pulls a loud moan from him, loud enough that he's sure anyone currently on this floor must have heard even over the radio.

 

Merlin growls, his teeth scraping across the back of Harry's neck. "Fuck's sake, Harry, even your voice is perfect. That noise... Christ, can you feel how hard you've got me?"

 

"You feel so good," Harry whines. "Never thought you'd want this."

 

Merlin presses his lips close to Harry's ear. "I've wanted to fuck you since the first moment I saw you."

 

Harry's hips stutter at the admission, bucking wildly for a brief moment. "So did I. So did I, god, we could've been doing this months ago."

 

"We're doing it now," Merlin pants. "And we'll do it again later."

 

Harry moans softly at the promise of more, the promise of again. It only prompts the tech to increase the speed of his thrusts and each stroke of Harry's cock along with it. Harry's riding a wave of pure pleasure and though he can see the rocks ahead, he still doesn't know precisely when this wave will break. But as Merlin's thrusts begin to take on a frantic edge, he has a feeling it will be soon.

 

Merlin chases his orgasm, bringing Harry right along with him as he jacks him even faster than his hips move. Harry feels frozen to the spot, his breaths coming faster and faster as Merlin speeds him along towards the inevitable. His muscles twitch and his body locks up as he teeters on the edge of release. Merlin's lips are still pressed close to Harry's ear, which means he gets the full effect when the wizard growls a single word:

 

"Come."

 

The command tips him right over, pulling a sharp cry from him that's nearly a sob. Merlin strokes him evenly, even as he puts into Harry another dozen or so times before pressing deep inside him, his cock pulsing as he reaches his climax. He gives a few languid thrusts, lost in a haze of pleasure and slowly pumping Harry's cock as though he were milking a cow and looking to get every last drop out of him.

 

Harry shudders as his cock twitches, spurting another shot of come across the surface of his desk. Gradually they come down together, until Harry's run dry and Merlin ceases all movement, still buried inside him and resting against his back. For a moment they don't move, catching their breath and realizing that, yes, they really had just done that. It's not until he feels a series of kisses being placed on his neck and shoulders that Harry realizes he'd been drifting.

 

"You are absolutely incredible," Merlin says, his voice laden with affection. "Just... fucking spectacular."

 

Harry huffs a laugh. "You say that, but I'm fairly certain you'll need to carry me out of here; I believe my legs may have given up on me."

 

Merlin sighs, nuzzling closer to him. "I can do that." There's another beat of silence before he adds, "Harry, I realize we may have put the cart before the horse, but... I'd like to take you to dinner. Sometime."

 

"Come back to mine," Harry blurts. He clears his throat, hoping it didn't sound as desperate to Merlin as it had to him. "By that I mean... You could come spend the night with me and I'll cook you dinner. Would you care to?"

 

He prays he hasn't jumped the gun asking him to spend the night. But the thought of going home to a bed that doesn't have Merlin in it isn't something he thinks he can stand now. For all the heated, frantic pace of their coupling, he wants time to explore Merlin's body for himself. Wants time to map out every part of him and wake with Merlin's body pressed close to his.

 

"God, yes," Merlin groans.

 

Harry exhales loudly in relief. Merlin wants this. Merlin wants this as much as he does. The thought makes his stomach flutter pleasantly and he's suddenly filled with a desire to strike out for their apartment building as soon as possible. With a soft smile, he turns his head just enough to place a kiss on Merlin's cheek. "Then let's go home, dove."


	5. for fear of falling (Percilot; Cop!AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smutty smutty smut lol

Everything in Martin's flat is neat and tidy, organized to the point of being neurotic, except where his brother Mickey is concerned. Against the backdrop of a carefully alphabetized wall of books, there lies no shortage of toys strewn about the floor. A tower of blocks in a state of partial collapse, a stuffed bear, a partially straightened Slinky, a toy truck in dire need of repair (Mickey had come to that phase of wanting to take things apart while lacking the ability to put it back together once he had).

Martin has always been very particular about his space and the order of the things inside it... and yet all his rules seem to disappear for his brother. Mickey is a toddler and toddlers make messes. It's normal. And if there's one thing in the world that Martin wants, it's for his brother to have a normal childhood.

 

Right now, however, he's not focusing so much on the state of his living room as he is on the detective sergeant eagerly devouring his mouth. Martin has his hands fisted in the brunette's shirt, steadily tugging him along as the two blindly make their way towards the bedroom. 

 

_'Thank god the Brampton have Mickey tonight.'_ Martin thinks to himself.

 

They'd taken the toddler for the night in order to give Martin a chance to get some proper sleep, being that he hasn't had it in near about a week. On some level, he feels guilty for what he's doing now instead, but he really hadn't invited James over with the intention of it ending up like this. He'd just wanted to talk. He'd just needed to apologize for how he'd acted towards James in the wake of that Southerly business. Somehow that apology had turned into a confession and now—

 

"Fuck! Ah, fuckfuck _shit_ ," James hisses, breaking away and hopping on one foot.

 

Somehow Martin had missed the scattered LEGOs on the floor, but James hadn't been so lucky.

 

"I'm sorry, are you alright?" Martin asks him.

 

"Fine, fine, let's just get back to..."

 

He'd trailed off there, his hand coming to rest at the back of Martin's head as he captures the prosecutor's lips in a kiss once more. The neediness of it makes Martin's heart pound, the raw want rolling off of James in waves making the room feel overly warm. James wants him, wants this. And so does Martin. He'd never thought this was something he was even capable of, but James managed to somehow wake that part of him which no one else could.

 

James is insistent, but not greedy; he allows Martin to take as much as he does, something which Martin finds himself taking full advantage of. He's never felt this sort of need before. It's like hunger or thirst except the only thing that will satiate it is James and he doesn't know why just knows that he needs more. The more he takes of him, the more he wants, and they can't seem to stagger towards the bedroom quick enough.

 

Martin feels his body yanked away from James at exactly the same time that his foot connects with another of Mickey's toys. He falls backward, landing hard on his arse, only since he'd been gripping James's shirt so tightly, the copper comes with him. Martin groans with James's added weight having contributed to the fall, the plastic truck which had caused the whole thing screeching the melody to some childhood nursery rhyme mockingly.

 

"Ooh, Christ, that was a good one," James says, lifting himself off of Martin. "You alright?"

 

"Fine," Martin assures him, wincing as he sits up. "But perhaps we should just walk normally the rest of the way."

 

"I think that may be for the best," James agrees, rising to his knees. "Before we break our necks." 

 

The two of them clamber back to their feet, walking the remaining length of the living room and hall until they reach Martin's bedroom. They've hardly crossed the threshold before Martin hauls James in again, earning him a pleased chuckle against his lips. Martin allows his hands to roam, moving along the other man's body like a blind man reading braille. Angles and curves lost on his eyes, only able to be appreciated as close as he is, mapped out by his fingers.

 

They continue where they'd left off in the living room, shuffling towards the bed until the mattress hits the backs of Martin's knees. He allows momentum to carry him as he flops back onto the bed with James following a fraction of a second behind. James scoots him back until they reach the pillows and kneels above the prosecutor, one of his hands rucking up his shirt to allow him access to the skin beneath.

 

The first slide of James's palm against Martin's abdomen is electric. The simplest touch and yet it feels as though James has a direct line to every nerve in his body. Without even realizing, Martin had followed James's touch, body lifting off the mattress in a bid to press further into his hand. Martin lifts his left leg, raising it at the knee until his thigh is pressed between James's legs.

 

The sergeant makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat as Martin feels his erection pressing against his thigh. James shifts his hips and grinds against him while simultaneously reaching up to drag his thumb across Martin's nipple. Again that feeling of electricity lighting up his nerve endings and Martin rolls his hips along with James, giving him that much more friction.

 

Martin nearly protests when James's lips leave his own, but soon enough he feels those lips against his jaw and neck, chased by the barest hint of teeth. At the same time, James withdraws his hand from beneath Martin's shirt and shifts his attention lower, cupping Martin through his trousers. Martin breathes out in a vocal exhale as James grinds his palm against his groin until Martin's hips no longer even touch the bed as he pushes into James's touch. 

 

"Fuck, James," he sighs, pressing his thigh hard between his partner's legs.

 

"I know," James says against the skin of his neck. "It's the same for me. Christ, I've wanted to touch you for so long."

 

He reaches up, flicking the button on Martin's fly open as though he's done it a hundred times before. Martin swallows hard as James tugs the zipper down with unbearable slowness.

 

" _Wait_ ," Martin blurts, pushing on the brunette's shoulders. "Wait, just... Wait a moment."

 

James draws back in an instant, concern written into his features. "What is it? Are you alright?"

 

"I'm fine, it's nothing you did," Martin assures him. He inhales deeply, preparing himself for what he has to say. "It's just... I've never done this before."

 

"With a man?"

 

If only it were that simple. 

 

"With anyone."

 

Martin feels the tickle of anxiety crawling up his spine as James freezes, lips slightly parted and eyes locked on him. This is what he'd been afraid of. He hadn't wanted to put James off by telling him, but they'd gotten to the point where Martin couldn't go any further without speaking up. Just as he feared, James leans away from him, sitting back on his haunches.

 

"You've never had... Not with anyone? Really?" James asks.

 

Heat rises quickly to Martin's face. "No. It's just not something that had ever interested me. But I want to now. With you."

 

For a long moment, James merely watches him, the expression on his face one that is unreadable to Martin. He leans forward once again, brushing Martin's hair back from his forehead in order to place a soft kiss there. Martin tilts his head back, managing to pull James into a slow, languid kiss as James picks up where he left off and slips his hand beneath the band of Martin's boxer briefs.

 

"We won't go much further than this tonight. I want that to be something we plan out and take our time with," James says, speaking evenly as though he didn't have his hand wrapped around Martin's cock. "Are you alright with that?"

 

"Yes," Martin says hoarsely, nodding his head jerkily. He wets his lips as he reaches out and runs his fingers along the waistband of James's jeans.  "Can I...?"

 

His hand pauses there, his thumb pressing against the button on the sergeant's fly. James's eyes light up as he reaches with his free hand to flick the button open and draw his zipper down. Martin reaches further, palming the hard length of him through his boxer briefs. James makes an appreciative noise as he pushes into the prosecutor's hand, all while he slowly starts to stroke Martin's cock. 

 

The slickness of his own pre coats James's hand, allowing his strokes to move with ease. But as they progress further, Martin finds himself no longer content to simply like back and allow James to steer the ship. Relocating his hands to James's shoulders, he surges up to lock lips with his partner, using his momentum to flip them until Martin kneels between James's knees.

 

The motion had pulled James's hand out from his briefs, but Martin was more focused on reclaiming control of the encounter. Control is important to him; he hates the way uncertainty leaves him open and vulnerable. He wants to show James how much he wants this. He wants there to be no doubt in his mind.

 

Rather than complain, when Martin draws back to look James in the eye, his partner gazes up at him, looking dazed and excited. Martin nearly moans as James lies back against the pillows, presenting himself as he spreads his legs further.

 

"Go on. Show me what you want," James says breathlessly.

 

There's a brief struggle for the two of them to get their pants off and out of the way, as well as a minor debate over the use of baby oil in the absence of any proper lube. Martin uses that for Mickey, after all, and using it for this felt... well, it made him a bit uncomfortable. However, James had been quick to promise they could shop together tomorrow for proper supplies. 

 

"So when you think of this later, you'll be prepared," James purrs in his ear, fingers skimming lightly up the underside of Martin's cock.

 

That's enough to make up Martin's mind. Squirting a healthy dose of oil in his hand, he slicks them both up, taking his time with James. He watches with fascination as James rocks into his grip, eyes half-lidded with desire and panting open-mouthed. He doesn't bother to hold back the way Martin himself feels he would, instead loudly and vocally letting Martin know exactly how he feels.

 

After a few minutes of this, Martin does precisely as James had suggested and shows him what he wants. He leans forward until he can feel the press of James's erection against his own, the oil slick between them.

 

"Will this be alright for you?" Martin asks, knowing James is used to much more.

 

"Do I look dissatisfied?" James asks with a lopsided grin, rolling his hips against Martin's to drive his point home.

 

Martin doesn't dawdle. He reaches for James's hands, taking them in his own and pinning them above his head. James curses, shifting excitedly, only for his curse to drown inside a low moan as Martin moves against him. It's like nothing Martin's ever felt before; the slick slide of James's cock against his own, with James keening beneath him. He finds himself wanting to draw more out of his partner even more than he wishes to pleasure himself. It's a heady, powerful feeling.

 

There's no more talk, especially not when Martin dips down and seals their lips together. He'd been so terrified of this—more than he thinks he'll ever admit to James—and yet it's happening right now. All the time he'd spent researching and reading and (as much as he hated it) watching material to try to understand what to do and what to expect, and in the end, not a single plan or idea he'd concocted comes to his mind. It's as though his body is moving entirely on its own, separated from the thoughts that had held him back before.

 

It's simple. They're really not doing much more but rocking against each other. (He had looked this up before; though they referred to this as "frotting" there had been a surprising number of non-penetrative sexual practices available. But at the moment, that's neither here nor there.) But even its simplicity lends to its quality. James arcs his back, pressing up into him and rolling his hips, allowing Martin to take in the feeling of his slick cock against his groin.

 

A sudden desperation to his own movements takes Martin by surprise. He can feel he's getting closer to something, but he wants James there with him.

 

"Are you close?" he pants against the sergeant's lips.

 

"Almost," James answers him. "Just keep going, don't think about it."

 

So he doesn't. Somehow, that seems to make things better. He's moving faster, pressing harder against James and looking for what lies at the end of this road. He knows, of course, _what_ it is. He's just never experienced one. But he knows that's what's rapidly approaching and he feels as though it's out of his hands as he ruts against his partner and they pant into each other's mouths, unable to decide between kissing and breathing.

 

It's like a thread snapping.

 

It rushes him all at once and James swallows his choked cry as his hips stutter. The feeling radiates outward so that his whole body tingles with it, trembling with apparent relief. Never in his life had he had his mind go entirely blank; whited out as though everything there had simply been erased. His mind has never been so quiet. He's regained enough awareness to know when James follows him. He stills and Martin feels the sensation of his cock pulsing against him, both of them creating a warm, wet mess between them. He can't tell if it lasts a moment or an hour, all he knows is that it's good.

 

James is talkative. Martin's always known this, of course, but it apparently applies to this aspect of his life as well. He moans and sighs encouraging things to Martin, tells him how good it is, to keep moving, panting and cursing... All enough to make Martin want to do it all again, to keep those sounds spilling out of him. Of course, they gradually have to come down from the height they've climbed and the descent leaves Martin feeling weary but satisfied in a way he's never quite understood before now.

 

James eventually slips one wrist free, reaching up and running his fingers through the hair at the back of Martin's head. He guides Martin towards him until the prosecutor is resting atop him. James gently pets his head as Martin presses his face to his neck, both of them still catching their breath.

 

Eventually, they're simply lying there, quietly tangled up in each other, neither of them seems all that inclined to move. Sleeplessness is catching up with him, Martin knows, as he feels his eyelids growing heavy. The temptation to simply fall asleep right there is sorely tempting. And yet...

 

"I'm sorry," Martin mumbles. "I know you're used to something a bit more exciting than that."

 

"Sorry? Are you joking?" James snorts. "Martin, in case you haven't noticed, there's a very sticky mess between us that should tell you I liked that rather a lot."

 

"Well, yes, but I meant... we didn't do it the normal way," Martin clarifies.

 

"There is no normal way," James tells him. "Whatever I've done with whoever else doesn't matter. How we do it doesn't matter. It just matters that it's with you."

 

Martin idly traces the ridge of James's clavicle with his fingertips as he thinks. As long as it's with him. Hadn't Martin thought very nearly the same thing?

 

"And we can try other things later," James goes on to say. "Don't worry so much about trying to do what you think I want. All you have to do is be you."

 

Martin lifts himself just high enough to place a soft kiss on the other man's lips. "Come to the bath with me?"

 

"Darling, nothing would make me happier," James says, flashing him a bright smile. "Truly; this whole thing's turned into a spot of ick. That's the thing about come, it has no regard for those of us wanting a good cuddle."

 

Martin smothers a laugh against James's chest before pushing up off of him and rising to his feet beside the bed. James accepts his hand and slides to the side of the bed as well before standing. It feels strange to be standing there in the dark of his room completely nude, but Martin finds he doesn't overly mind. Not when it's James here with him. Somehow, he feels as comfortable as if he were standing there fully clothed.

 

"You'll spend the night, won't you?" Martin asks. He realizes the question sounds more presumptuous than he'd intended and hurries to correct his mistake. "Of course, you're not obligated to. But if you'd care to, I would like it very much if you did."

 

James's eyebrows jump to his hairline in surprise, as though he hadn't been expecting the offer. Martin wonders what that says about him. But James's expression quickly shifts from surprised to pleased and Martin allows himself to relax.

 

"I'd love to," James says, pulling Martin towards him by his waist and pressing a kiss to his lips. Walking backward, he maneuvers them both towards the bathroom. "I'll make breakfast in the morning. We can pick up Mickey and do some shopping since I think your refrigerator could use—"

 

His sentence is cut off with a shriek as his feet tangle in his own crumpled trousers on the floor and he trips over them, falling backward. Martin stares as he lands flat on his back, still completely nude.

 

"Nope. Don't care. Still utterly worth it," James says from the floor, even as he grimaces.

 

If they have this much bad luck outside the bathroom, Martin's afraid for their odds inside the shower. But as he helps James back to his feet, he has to agree: it's utterly worth it.


End file.
